Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 3

  White Bear had no idea what to do. He mumbled something about being needed elsewhere, and loped back towards the longhouse.

  *

  Alex watched him go, already regretting that she hadn’t pulled him into her arms, hugged and kissed him as much as she wanted to. Her son ducked out of sight behind one of the buildings, and Alex wanted to scream his name, call him back to her, but she didn’t.

  Instead, she fell into step with her husband, following Qaachow towards the closest longhouse. After the chilly air outside, it was comfortably warm if rather smoky inside, and Alex stared curiously at the long row of raised sleeping platforms that lined the wall, divided into several compartments by woven mats. A discreet count made it six compartments on either side, several hearths down the middle, and right at the bottom what seemed to be a communal area. It was all very neat, bedrolls stacked to one side, pelts for comfort and insulation on the platforms, and the space below them used for storage. Her stomach grumbled loudly at the smells of corn bread and squash soup, and Matthew smiled down at her.

  “Hungry?”

  “A bit,” Alex said in a voice too low for Qaachow to catch. After all, she didn’t want to force him to invite them to eat.

  In the event, they were asked to sit down, close to the hearth, and bowls of fragrant, deep orange soup were brought to them. Alex stretched her feet as close to the fire as she could without actually setting her soles on fire, and her toes uncurled slowly from their frozen state. She saw Samuel again, standing with his Indian brother to the side, and in his arms he held a baby that she assumed to be Qaachow’s latest child.

  Bitterly, she regretted having let Qaachow take her son to begin with. Even more bitterly she regretted not having forced Samuel to stay with them when he came back after his one year with Qaachow, and now it was too late. It was them, Matthew and herself, that were the interlopers in his life now, and it showed plainly in how Samuel held himself, close to his Indian family rather than by their side. But what were they to do? Qaachow had demanded Samuel’s fosterage in lieu of ensuring their home was kept safe from marauding Indians and the accursed Burleys. Alex sighed. It went back even further than that. She allowed her eyes to rest for an instant on Little Bear, the Indian boy she’d saved from imminent starvation by nursing him side by side with her own Samuel. To the Indians, this made them foster brothers, and watching them together she found it difficult to say which one of them was Indian and which one of them was white. She snuck her hand into Matthew’s, and he squeezed before letting go to accept the pipe that Qaachow handed him.

  “I don’t smoke,” he said some minutes later, still bright red from his coughing attack.

  “I can see that,” Qaachow replied with a smile in his voice, “but at least you tried.

  “So,” Qaachow settled back against the wall. “Philip Burley is still alive, you say.”

  “Either him or Walter,” Matthew said. “And if he is, well then, it is but a matter of time before he returns here.”

  “Here?” Qaachow sucked at the pipe. “No, here I don’t think he will return. Not unless he plans on bringing a great number of men.”

  “I meant here like my home,” Matthew said, “and he will bring men with him.”

  Qaachow studied them both. “It was your daughter’s wish that they not be killed.”

  “Aye,” Matthew said, “and so she has nightmares every night where they return for her.”

  “And you?” Qaachow asked. “Do you have nightmares?”

  “It happens,” Matthew said in a casual voice. It did? Alex gave her husband a long look, casting her mind back over the recent months. On occasion, she’d woken to find his half of the bed empty, but when she’d asked he had muttered something about having been thirsty, no more.

  Qaachow smiled up at Thistledown when she came to serve him more to eat, a smile reciprocated in her dark eyes. Alex looked enviously at her clothes. A skirt ending mid-calf, leggings, moccasins and an elongated tunic in a darker shade than the skirt – all of it in deerskin, none of it muddy and torn after a day’s hiking through the woods. She looked over to where her son stood, in a deerskin shirt, leggings and breechcloth. Samuel shifted under her eyes, said something in a low voice to his Indian brother, and sidled over to stand by Thistledown. Alex swallowed and swallowed to clear her throat of the sudden lump.

  With difficulty, she returned her attention to the conversation where Matthew and Qaachow were now discussing different tactics to handle the Burley threat.

  “…we will of course help you,” Qaachow was saying. “Burley is an enemy of my people as well.” He spat into the fire. “Far too many of our women has he stolen from us, selling them to white men far away from here.”

  “Aye,” Matthew said. “He and his brothers enriched themselves on other people’s misery – born warped, the four of them.”

  Qaachow nodded. “Only one left.”

  “Which is one too many,” Alex muttered. One Burley intent on revenge. Oh God. Not here, he isn’t here, she thought, and for all you know, Alex Graham, he might be dead in a drift of snow, or have stuck his foot in a bear trap, or maybe walked off a cliff in the dark.

  She took a long, shuddering breath, took two, and to distract herself, she concentrated on the Indians around them, taking in the excellent needlework of their clothes, the beading that decorated sashes and moccasins, and the tattoos sported by the younger men. One of the braves grew irritated by her inspection and said something to Qaachow who raised a brow and turned to Alex.

  “Is it not impolite among your people to stare?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s just that I’m so impressed by your clothes.”

  “And the tattoos.” Qaachow smiled.

  “Well…” Alex said, “I’m not sure I’m impressed by them, but they are quite eye-catching. It seems to be a relatively new fashion, though.”

  “Fashion?” Qaachow’s brows rose.

  “You don’t have them, nor do the other men of your age,” Alex said.

  “Susquehannock men were not tattooed as part of their coming of age, but Mohawk men are. And we are Mohawk now.” Qaachow sounded curt.

  Alex’s eyes flew to where Samuel was listening.

  “All Mohawk men are tattooed,” Qaachow said, following her look.

  This time it was Matthew’s hand that snuck into hers.

  *

  White Bear nodded obediently at what his father said and went over to his birth parents.

  “Are you tired?” he asked, kneeling down before them.

  “A bit.” Mama yawned.

  “My fath—” he broke off, aware not only of their eyes but of Qaachow’s eyes on him. He started anew. “My father says I am to show you where to sleep and stay with you that we may talk.”

  Da’s brows pulled together. “I am your father, lad. It’s from my seed that you spring. Don’t forget that.”

  White Bear shifted on his knees, threw a helpless look in the direction of his Indian father who gave him a little smile.

  “You’re my Da,” White Bear said at last, “and aye, you’re my birth father. But I have two fathers now.”

  He rose to his feet, waited as they got up, and led them over to one of the sleeping compartments. On one side was a larger platform, covered in hides, on the other nothing but a woven mattress and a decorated quilt. White Bear sank down to sit cross-legged on the thin mattress and, now that it was only them and him, he could allow himself to be simply Samuel, bombarding them with questions about his brothers and sisters.

  He crept successively closer, and finally snuggled up to them, his face rubbing affectionately at Da’s chest. And when Mama at last hugged him and kissed him, he made a contented sound, relishing her fingers through his long hair, allowing himself to drift off into sleep in her arms, like a wee bairn.

  *

  “Maybe we did wrong,” Alex said to Matthew as she kneeled to tuck the thick quilt closer round her sleeping son’s body. “Maybe
we should have refused to let him go.”

  Matthew stroked back a lock of her hair. “I don’t know, lass. But when he’s home, he’s restless and edgy, wishing himself here, and, watching him tonight, I don’t think he wishes himself with us when he’s here. Not anymore.”

  “No, not anymore. But once he did.” And maybe one day he will again, she hoped.

  “Why haven’t you told me?” Alex asked once they were snugly encased in a combination of pelts and quilts.

  “Told you what?” Matthew yawned.

  “About your dreams, the nightmares.” She raised herself on her elbow to look down at him.

  “I don’t want to talk about them,” he said, closing his eyes.

  “But if you’re having nightmares…” Alex rested her hand against his cheek, “…maybe I can help.”

  “Not with these,” he told her in a definite tone.

  Alex looked down at him a little while longer. She had a pretty good idea what it was he was dreaming about, having been an unwilling witness to the final degradation the Burleys submitted him to when they raped him. “At least I can warm you some milk.”

  His mouth twisted into a sad smile. “Aye, that you could do.” He rolled her over on her side, spooned himself around her and kissed her nape. “Sleep, aye?”

  “Sleep,” she agreed.

  Chapter 4

  “So, by the time he’s thirteen, he’ll be considered a man?” Alex stared at Qaachow.

  “Yes,” Qaachow said, “man enough to go on raids, man enough to bed a woman.”

  “At thirteen?” Alex squeaked.

  Qaachow looked at her and smiled. “Boys come to that at different ages. Myself, I was well over fourteen, but my brother was a year younger.”

  “You make sure it’s well over fourteen for Samuel,” Alex said.

  “White Bear,” Qaachow corrected. He threw the boy a look laden with possessive pride, and Alex alternated between wanting to kick him in the balls or elbow him in the gut, anything to wipe that look off his face.

  “Samuel, he’s my Samuel Isaac.” Whom you stole, you bastard. Something shifted in the tall Indian’s face – a fleeting expression of shame? Compassion?

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  “No, you’re not,” she said, angry at hearing the wobble in her voice. “After all, you achieved what you wanted: you seduced him to your way of life.”

  “You could have stopped him. When I brought him back, you could have told him he had to stay with you, and he would have obeyed.”

  Alex studied her husband and her son, talking together on the other side of the clearing. “No, we couldn’t, because that would have killed something inside of him.” She settled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. “It’s like Solomon and the baby,” she said, and walked over to bid her son goodbye.

  *

  “Who was Solomon?” Qaachow asked White Bear once Da and Mama had dropped out of sight.

  “He’s a king in the Bible,” White Bear said. “A king renowned for his wisdom.” His eyes were still stuck to the spot where he had last seen Mama, a very unwelcome feeling of homesickness stirring inside of him. She hadn’t hugged him when she left either; just an attempted cheerful smile that stood in horrible contrast to the dark in her eyes and her crossed arms.

  “Ah. And what is this about Solomon and a baby?”

  “Why?”

  “It was something your birth mother said.”

  White Bear gnawed at his lower lip. “Two women quarrelled over the same child,” he said, struggling to remember the story, “and Solomon said that, as they couldn’t agree, well then he’d split the child in two. So he took the baby, a swordsman was brought, and the woman who was the true mother fell to her knees and begged for the child, saying she would rather have him go to the other woman than see him torn apart…” He came to an abrupt stop and wheeled, running wildly for the trees before anyone should see the tears coursing down his face.

  *

  Matthew and Alex didn’t say much on the long trudge back to the ford, but after having thanked their Indian escort, Matthew decided they had gone far enough for the day and set about making camp while Alex focused on the food.

  She was heavy with loss. Seeing her son so at ease and so obviously not hers anymore had been like having six-inch nails driven into her heart. Her head thudded with his name, with a gallery of images of him, from babyhood to the stringy ten-year-old he had been that first time Qaachow came to claim him.

  Morosely, she set the small kettle to boil over the fire, so sunk in her reminiscences that she didn’t hear Matthew’s warning call, not until it was almost too late, a large, dark hand closing over her arm. Without stopping to think, Alex threw the kettle at her assailant, and with knife in one hand, a rock in the other, whirled to where her husband was fending off three black men while a fourth was kneeling by the man – no, boy – she’d scalded.

  Matthew was an accomplished fighter, and on top of that he was tall and fit, while the three men facing him were undernourished and much the worse for wear. But still, three against one was uncomfortable odds.

  “Go!” Matthew panted. “Run, Alex!” He swung his musket in a wild arc, ducked a large fist, and retreated a pace or two.

  “In your dreams, Superman,” she replied, rushing over to join the free-for-all.

  “Superman?” One of the black men straightened up, surprised, and Matthew’s musket crashed into his head, bringing him to his knees. “Fucking hell,” the large man moaned. “Jesus, man! You’ve split my skull.”

  “Stop!” Alex yelled when it seemed Matthew was going to clobber the kneeling man again. “Don’t!” She dropped to her haunches beside the man. “Are you okay?”

  “Okay? Of course I’m not okay!” The large man met her eyes. “And he sure as hell isn’t Superman, is he? No blue leotards, no cape…”

  “No phone booths,” Alex said, smiling at him. Leon White, aka Noah, branded slave and now apparently a fugitive Maroon, smiled back.

  “No.” He nodded. “I haven’t seen any in years. Unfortunately.” It came out very bitter. Alex was still trying to grasp the fact that the man she had last seen hogtied and covered in welts after an unsuccessful attempt to run away was sitting at her feet, bleeding profusely from his head.

  “Get away,” Matthew warned when one of Leon’s companions made as if to come over to join them.

  “You know these whiteys?” the man demanded of Leon, keeping a wary eye on Matthew and his musket.

  “They’re good people,” Leon said.

  “Good? How good? Benji is hurtin’, he is, all bubbly his skin is, and you, well look at you. Bleedin’ like a pig, you is, and it’s him’s fault.” The man spat in Matthew’s direction, said something in a guttural language to the other men who moved towards Matthew, sharpened sticks and knives at the ready.

  “No,” Leon barked, and with a grumble the men lowered their weapons, but Matthew kept his loaded musket in his hands, eyes never leaving them.

  *

  An hour or so later, the tension had dissipated somewhat, helped along by the fact that Alex had fed the starving men, bandaged Leon’s head, and even coaxed Benji into letting her look at his burn which she pronounced must hurt like hell. She took the lad by the hand and led him closer to the fire, insisting she treat his blistered skin.

  Matthew looked Leon over. “So you absconded again.” Having witnessed the exceptionally cruel punishment Leon had lived through nearly six years ago after his previous attempt to run away, he couldn’t but admire the man.

  “Well, he didn’t exactly let me go voluntarily, the son of a bitch,” Leon said, “and the right word is escape, not abscond, as I was never his slave to begin with, was I?”

  “Nay.” Matthew had never really spoken to a black man before, and it was disconcerting to listen to the well modulated, educated voice that emanated from the man before him. A musician, Alex had told him all those years ago, an unfortunate soul who’d had the misfortune to
fall back in time to land in a day and age where any coloured person by definition was unfree unless capable of proving otherwise. And now the man sitting before him had all the hallmarks of a fugitive slave: dressed mostly in rags, barefoot, and with scars around ankles and wrists after heavy fetters, he regarded Matthew with apprehension.

  “Is he looking for me?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Mr Farrell lately. But I suspect that aye, he is. It’s a special thing between the two of you.”

  “Special thing?” Leon spat, holding out his hands to show how all his fingers were badly twisted. “You can say that again… The first time I met the bastard he called me a slave, and so I punched him in the face. The second time I met him, Farrell claimed me as his slave, stripping me and branding me on the spot, and now, six years on, I’ve been whipped so many times I can’t remember them all.” He closed his hands into loose fists, a tremor rippling through him. “And if he catches me this time—”

  “He’ll kill you,” Matthew said. “Over many days, he’ll whip the skin off you.”

  “Yeah. But he won’t. Catch me, I mean.”

  “No, best not let that happen.” Matthew studied Leon and his knife, let his eyes rove over the other equally badly armed men, and moved over to his saddlebags. He rooted around and pulled out one of his snaphance pistols, handing it to Leon who accepted it gingerly.

  “I have some powder and shots to go with it,” Matthew said, “and it isn’t much use against a musket, but at times it might be better than a knife.” There was a whisper of admiration among Leon’s companions, and they thronged around to study the weapon.

  “Why?” Leon asked Matthew, turning the beautifully engraved gun round in his hands.

  “Why?” Matthew shrugged and looked away. “Because there was nothing I could do for you the day you were made a slave, and yet I knew you weren’t. I heard it in how you spoke, and saw it in how you moved. And so did he, Mr Farrell.”

  “He did?” Leon gave him a surprised look.

  “Mr Farrell has been trading in slaves as long as we’ve lived here,” Matthew told him. “He knows a slave when he sees one. But you humiliated him, and on top of that you were tall and healthy – and black.”